The Rules of Engagement
by and if I dream
Summary: Maxon proposed. America accepted. Happily ever after- except for the minor detail of the Southern rebels. This time, they're not settling for a few murders. No, they want America. She has twenty five days until her wedding. Unless she escapes the rebels, it's the same amount of time until she dies. Will her engagement end with a wedding or a funeral? [Maxerica]
1. The Art of Sitting Pretty

_The Rules of Engagement_

 _Chapter One_

 _The Art of Sitting Pretty_

* * *

America hurried down the hallway, carrying her heels in one hand. The afternoon sun tilted through the windows, but not a single mote of dust swirled in the light. Her dress brushed against the smooth floors. It was deep navy blue, layers upon layers of thin, soft material floating along behind her like a cloud, dotting intermittently with little ems. The halls were silent. She missed the atmosphere of the early Selection, when the Palace bustled with activity. It was too quiet now.

Back in Carolina, she remembered, her house had always smelled of her mother's latest meal. The chemical scent of paint would waft in from the garage, along with occasional crashes and clatters, mostly from May dropping things. Her mother would be tinkering in the kitchen or playing the piano. Doors slammed, soccer balls crashed into the walls. People argued and shouted.

if there was anything she missed, other than her family, it was the atmosphere of family. The noise and arguments and scents. The palace had none of that, only the guards stationed on every corner and the occasional maid. But they were almost always silent.

She took a left turn into the guest wing. Her Selection room was on the easternmost corner of the wing, past a large statue of some important politician or another. Of course, it wasn't her room anymore. The only reason America still went there was to pick up the occasional forgotten item. Surprisingly, she'd managed to forget quite a lot in the room. Only Mary had been available to help her, really, since Anne was gone and Lucy had retired, only returning for one last hurrah for the night's ball. So she was rather sure that she had left a bracelet in the bathroom, one that would match the dress she was wearing. She needed it for the evening's ball, the one meant to celebrate her engagement to Maxon. It had been delayed to account for the necessary funerals and repairs after the rebel attack.

Finally, the door was in front of her. The hallway seemed a million miles long without anyone else in it. America turned the cool brass handle and ducked inside. The room was just as it had been left. The cream bedspread was draped neatly across the bed, the curtains were open, and the floors shined to perfection. The closet doors were shut tightly. She flicked the light on in the bathroom. The silver bracelet was exactly where it had been left, lying neatly on the marble countertop. It was rather surprising that no one had noticed it yet, as maids came in to dust every week or so for even the unused rooms in the palace.

America picked it up and slipped it on her wrist. The thin metal braid pinched the skin by her thumb and she hissed slightly before fixing it into place. Small, clear stones glittered on it. They weren't real diamonds- the bracelet had been given to her before the end of the Selection, and like most things the girls had received, there were no real jewels on it. In the dim light of the room, all the fixtures glittered like jewels, a disconcerting effect that left odd afterimages in her vision.

Shaking her head, she shoved her feet into her heels. The short heels in a pretty shade of pale gold were, mercifully, not horribly uncomfortable, and gave a rather pretty effect when combined with the deep blue-black of the dress and its field of shimmering translucent gems, carefully hand-sewn on the fabric. Although she'd protested loudly, America had conceded to Mary painting her nails, since the little heels were open-toed and the last thing she needed to worry about at the moment was the unfashionable-ness of her feet. After fastening the straps, she turned off the bathroom light and slipped back outside.

Heels clicked on the floor as she raced back down the hall, dodging a maid carrying a basket of laundry and a pair of guards on rotation. The winter sun was rapidly gliding towards the horizon, leaving the palace in a golden haze full of long shadows.

As she rounded a corner that would take her towards the third floor, she crashed unceremoniously into someone. America wobbled on her heels slightly as she met the gaze of the King, also known as her very unofficial fiancé.

Maxon chuckled, wrapping an arm around her waist as she wavered. "In a hurry, darling?" he asked, one eyebrow drifting somewhere high, high above where it belonged. She rolled her eyes, leaning into him slightly. She'd never been much good on heels and the long dress wasn't helping.

"Had to grab my bracelet from my old room," She explained, holding up her wrist. "I swear there's a million things I forgot in there." Maxon kissed the top of her head softly, weaving a finger through her hair, shining red in the light from a nearby window overlooking a courtyard. Everything glowed in the sunset, from America's dress to Maxon's blonde hair. It was the sort of light that erased faults and created the sort of photos that Maxon liked to hang on every wall in the palace.

"Well, if you plan on continuing to run into me when you do, I hope you've forgotten quite a lot in there." He smirked, turning around to match the direction that she had been heading. The smooth fabric of his suit coat rubbed against her bare arm as they walked, a reassuring warmth to the nerves that were beginning to flood her at the thought of the night.

"You're hopeless, Maxon," she laughed, turning to face him. "You do realize that I share a room with you? You hardly need to run into me to see me."

"Well, maybe I should kick you out of _my_ room so we can treasure these moments dearly," he said. "You really ought to be more appreciative of this, you know, you're getting time with the most handsome King to have ever lived, all by yourself. Be grateful, or I shall have to banish you from the kingdom!"

America snorted in a very un-Queen-like manner. "Yes, I really ought to treasure being run into."

Together, they reached the staircase and America hurried up, Maxon by her side. The short train of the dress floated along behind her, both giving it a more regal look and an open invitation for every person within fifty feet to step on it, including America herself.

Her fears assaulted her again and she chewed at her lip as they walked towards the suite of rooms reserved for the ruling monarchs. "What if I can't manage to walk without tripping everywhere?" she worried aloud. It was one of many little fears that were suddenly becoming real and it wasn't even their wedding, just some silly engagement ceremony for the cameras.

This time it was Maxon's turn to snort ungracefully. "Darling, it would be a miracle if you didn't trip, you and I both know that. But then again, it would be a miracle if I manage to not fall right over at your beauty, so we're even. What are you so worried about tripping for anyway?"

"What about, oh, I don't know, _our wedding?_ " she said scathingly. "You know, the major, internationally televised event where I marry you, for some reason I haven't quite figured out, in front of thousands of people live and millions of people around the world? _While being crowned Queen_? Doesn't that seem like something I'm quite capable of messing up?" But instead of assuaging her fears, Maxon suddenly stopped, a few feet from the entrance to their rooms.

"I love that," he said. His warm brown eyes met her blue and she melted a little bit, fighting the inane urge to just collapse into his arms like some dramatic movie heroine.

"Love what?" she managed. He tipped up her chin with one smooth finger, then wound his hand into her hair.

"That you just say it like that. _Wedding._ We're getting married, America, and it sinks in a little bit more each time." Maxon leaned forward, capturing her lips gently. She could feel his smile against her lips as they kissed for a pair of heartbeats, softly, like they wanted to disappear into the golden light streaming from the window. Like he wished he could remove her from all this, and it could be just them.

She pulled away with a gasp. "It's a good thing Mary hasn't done my makeup yet," she quipped, ignoring the temptation to stand there and just keep kissing him until the sun fell and her dress matched the night sky and they could disappear somewhere where no one would ever look for them again.

She ran her thumb over his lips where their kiss hadn't, for once, left any of her lipstick clinging to them. Sometimes it seemed appealing to leave the remnants of their kisses on his lips, but then again it was likely he wouldn't notice until he was in a finance meeting with his advisors.

"You're gorgeous," he said softly. She rolled her eyes, trying not to blush. Maxon untangled his hand from her hair and pulled her back to him for the last few steps to their doors, ensuring she was secure in his arms.

* * *

Mary was dabbing a concealer brush under her eyes, carefully sweeping the makeup across her face. She'd enlisted Lucy again to help, although America was pretty sure Lucy would have shown up without Mary's invitation. Both of them were bubbling. To thank them both, she had given them invitations to the ball and access to the royal stores of fabric to make their dresses, although she would never really be able to repay them. As they flitted around the room in ball gowns and aprons to protect the expensive creations, she realized just how gorgeous both of her friends were. Mary had chosen a deep emerald that was stunning against her golden skin for the material of her dress, and for the first time, America almost wished she could be wearing that dress instead of her own. It was incredible, not that her own wasn't, but something about the way it elegantly dipped to the floor made it magical.

"You know, you two are going to steal the show from me," She teased. Lucy blushed brightly in the mirror reflection from where she stood, pinning America's hair in her own dove gray gown. Having Lucy there, simply doing her hair while she tried not to have a panic attack over the ball and everything it meant was incredibly reassuring.

"Never, your Highness," said Mary, pulling out a tube of lipstick. "You look wonderful." She did, but it was all thanks to them. Her own dress sparkled in the soft lighting with several thousand tiny gems sewn into the train. Mary had spent weeks on it and America had tried to assist at one point before her gem-sewing skills were declared wholly unsuitable for the task, although she suspected that Mary just didn't want her to see the final product. She wore a gorgeous necklace that Maxon had given to her the night before and a few thousand worth of jewels (also from Maxon) in several thin bracelets.

It was more than weird, even after the elegance of the Selection, to see herself covered in gems in the mirror, a mirror that reflected back a face that didn't seem like her own for all its elegance, surrounded by a room that she had never thought would be hers to share. The bracelet she had retrieved earlier seemed dull among the real diamonds and sapphires. A royal jeweler had polished each piece to perfection, but the crowning glory, literally, was the tiara that Maxon would be presenting in a grand ceremony at the ball. It was a symbol the royal aspect of their engagement; he would also be handing over a matching golden ring, since the one currently nestled on her ring finger wasn't considered official enough for the likes of Silvia. The tiara sat on a small blue cushion on the vanity, surrounded by pots and palettes full of expensive makeup and various scattered makeup brushes. Just looking at it made her nervous. With her luck, she'd manage to make it fall and send it crashing into the floors of the ballroom. She could imagine the hundreds of jewels skittering across the floor among their guest's feet, creating a scene the likes of which had probably never been seen in all of Illéan history. Certainly Queen Amberly had never tipped any of her crowns and tiaras onto the floor of the Great Room, surrounded by hundreds of people and cameras.

Lost in her thoughts, America jumped when the doors from the bathroom crashed open, very nearly slamming into the wall, and Maxon emerged in a robe with his hair plastered to his head, looking (and smelling) amazing.

"America, I'm marrying your maids, you two both look amazing," he announced teasingly. Since America couldn't throw anything at him without disturbing Mary and Lucy, she settled for sticking out her tongue in the mirror.

"Thank you, your Majesty," Lucy said. She had straightened up in the mirror and was blushing slightly, but looked much more confident than she would have if Maxon had said the same thing to her a month ago.

"Certainly," he said, coming closer. He brushed his hand over America's shoulder, now covered in a dress topper of intricate golden lace, and this time she did reach around to hit him.

"Your hands are cold," she accused. The icy tingle of his hands made her unreasonably cold as Maxon laughed.

"I'll just have to warm them up, then," he said, putting both of his freezing hands on her arm. She jumped, letting loose a shriek of surprise. She could see the smirk on his face and She would have greatly enjoyed slapping it off if only poor Mary hadn't been in the way, who was now cautiously holding the mascara brush far, far away from anyone's eyes.

"Maxon, you're disturbing the process," she grumbled, shivering under his touch, but this time from the fingers gently brushing over the curve of her ear and down her throat, an almost imperceptible touch that was all too real. As soon as his hand left, the room came into sharp focus, everything from the intricacies of the thousands of photos on the walls to the cloudlike texture of the rug under her feet perfectly sharp against the dark floors. The high-ceilinged room was perpetually cold and now it bit at her skin. And this was warmer than the icy sixty degrees it _had_ been, at least until she threatened Maxon with moving into her own room if he didn't turn up the heat. She had no idea why he was so obsessed with cold. She was of the opinion that is was patently ridiculous how cold one room could get in the perennially warm Angeles air.

Mary replaced the last brush into a box with a click before stepping back to check her work as Lucy waved a can of hairspray over the elaborate style that she had pinned to her head. Maxon coughed in the wave of spray and America smirked. He totally deserved it for his stupid cold hands.

"Thank you, girls," she said quietly, taking in their work. Two wide braids and indiscriminate narrower ones pulled her hair back in a circle around her head before falling into soft curls that shone a deep red-gold. Mary's makeup made her skin perfectly smooth and clear and bronze shadows brought out faint green in her eyes, taking them from a bright, tropical shade to something deeper and more elegant. The jewels glittering at her throat seemed even brighter.

"You look amazing, America," said Maxon. He was frozen in the mirror, over her shoulder, with his lips parted slightly and his eyes wide.

"Thanks. Now go get ready, Ice King." He still had on only the long robe, despite the dress uniform was draped over a chair to her right, awaiting him. What had she said about? Something about needing to hang him up in the chandeliers. One of the king's crowns he had commissioned rested on its own little pillow on its own little stand. The elegant circle of golden fleur-de-lis motifs embedded with sapphires and gems had its own aura of magic and power, but something about it was offputting to her.

Maxon had his own vanity with a few powders for wearing on the _Report_ and public appearances, something she teased him about endlessly. More than once recently, America had pranced about with a powder pouf, dabbing at Maxon's nose at odd moments on their dates. Of course, his vanity was hidden away in the enormous closet as a concession to his masculinity, a closet that was probably the size of the entire second story of her childhood house in Carolina, and maybe a bit of the backyard too. They were surrounded by her glittering dresses and his sleek suits, a whirling maelstrom of color on one side and a rather boring gradient of white, grey, and black on the other. The only color he got was the rainbow of expensive silk ties, arranged theatrically on bars along one wall. At her urging, Maxon picked up his uniform and disappeared into the closet to change, taking with him the faint scent of woodsy cologne.

Mary and Lucy both curtsied as America stood, slipping back into her shoes. She hugged both of them, careful not to muss their hair and makeup.

"I'll see you in a half hour, alright?" said America. They both nodded and left the room, closing the doors on the way out. She dropped into her chair again, tucking away a stray lipstick. In the mirror, she looked regal. Queenly. She wanted to laugh- America Singer was not supposed to look like a queen. She remembered the endless parties she had attended, but always as the background. Hidden away in the corner, She would watch as dozens of rich and famous people swirled intricately among each other. The women wore amazing jewelry and dresses and the men always looked handsome in their suits. When she had been younger, it had shocked her, the dresses worth her entire house. The food and wine. The extravagance. But America had learned to ignore it, to stand in her corner and focus only on her music. Silent and invisible. Heard, but not seen. Now she was about to enter that world of jewels and money again. For some reason, the idea had never really sunk in at any of the other parties she had attended during the Selection. Now, though, it hit her like a freight train.

She was about to be officially engaged to the King of Illéa. She was going to be the Queen of Illéa. Of an entire _country_. In charge of taking care of millions of people. In twenty-five short days, America would be the queen.

* * *

 _As of 9/7/2016, this story is now in third person._

 _Let the games commence._

 _-Dreams_

 _p.s. thanks for reading!_


	2. And They Were All Screaming

_The Rules of Engagement_

 _Chapter Two_

 _And They Were All Screaming_

* * *

The sound of music and laughter swirled through the closed doors as Maxon and America approached. The elegant mahogany towered over the pair, the winged shield and crown emblem of Illea etched in a brass door pull, half of the design on each door. A small brass button was embedded in the wall to the left of the door frame. When pushed, America knew, it would sound a small bell by the musicians to alert them to begin the fanfare for the royals to enter by.

Maxon reached over with his free hand and gently pushed it. Almost instantly, the music changed to a slow and elegant march accompanied by a burst of trumpet fanfare, a clear, melodic sound that faded as a pair of guards swung open the doors. The guards were in formal dress, looking impeccably crisp in white trousers and navy jackets glittering with gold buttons. Their guns were hidden, but every guard clutched a staff tightly and scanned the room constantly, obviously unnerved.

Six more joined the original two, forming an honor guard leading into the Great Hall. Their staffs hit the floor in unison once, twice, then a pause before the third time, leaving the room ringing faintly as the guests turned, almost as one, to the doors. America's heart was beating a million times a minute and she wanted desperately to reach for Maxon's hand. Instead, she was on his arm, positioned exactly as Silvia had instructed. According to palace protocol (which they both were sure Silvia had memorized), the couple need exactly six inches between their hips. America had been rather surprised that no one had whipped out a ruler to measure, but then again, there were more important concerns, chiefly that the last major Palace event had been in this room. And the last major event had gone very, very far from well.

"Breathe," he whispered in her ear. she gave him a tiny nod before they swept into the room.

Every guest stood stock still, forming a pathway to the small stage where the ceremony would take place. The music continued, slow and regal, as they passed through the crowd. Her train floated behind her, sweeping across the ground as the thousands of jewels shone under the lights. Mary caught her eye from near the stage and gave America a small smile.

Swaths of white and golden fabric lit from behind with fairy lights glowed as they hung from the ceiling by the thrones. Elaborate chandeliers cast spidery shadows and golden light over the deep mahogany of the parquet floors. Thousands of dollars' worth of fabric was draped over the men and women in the room, creating a multicolored backdrop.

Breathe, Aspen mouthed. Lucy clutched his hand, glowing in the lights. She looked happier than she'd ever seen her. The further they went, the longer the golden path seemed to get, under the glare of the cameras and he guests combined.

Walking through the lines of people, America wondered if this would be what her wedding would be like. A few familiar faces scattered amongst the hundreds that came for political reasons, or to see the King and Queen as she walked alone, towards Maxon with a soft smile on his face and a golden crown on his head.

Finally, they reached the stage, just another item draped in gold and white. She carefully climbed the three stairs- the last thing she needed was to trip in front of everyone. Two thronelike chairs were set on top, made from dark wood and gold. They weren't the real thrones, of course, since America wasn't allowed within about fifty feet of those until she was actually queen. At least, that was what Silvia said.

Speak of the devil. She stood just behind the stage, invisible to the guests, since the floor-to-ceiling drapes blocked everything behind nodded to her, trying desperately not to laugh at the expression on her face. Silvia looked slightly stunned that she'd made it up to her seat without incident. Maxon released her arm, allowing her to sit in the smaller chair. It was incredibly stiff and uncomfortable, America realized, as she recalled something Maxon had said about how royals were supposed to be uncomfortable on the throne. With a burst of anger, she realized King Clarkson must have ignored that rule. He had enjoyed wielding his power over the country. Maxon settled into his own, giving America a quick wink before facing the crowd. With a wave of his hand, the musicians fell silent. The guests were still standing and as the crowd of faces turned to America, she swallowed, closing her eyes for a moment to breathe before facing the now-startlingly bright lights and cameras and the unwavering inspection of the most powerful citizens in the country.

"Citizens of Illéa," Maxon began. "Thank you for joining us in this celebration. Lady America and I greatly appreciate your presence with us tonight. Let us commence!" The guests clapped, a wave of sound echoing and hovering in a way that made it seem endless. Then the band began again, playing a smooth, flowing tune as Gavril Fadaye approached the stage, holding the small velvet pillow with the tiara and the ring box. In other circumstances, the king would have presented the pair with the objects, blessing the engagement.

America figured he probably would have thrown them at her head.

The ceremony was simple, supposed to make up for the fact that the original engagement ceremony had been attacked. However, unlike the traditional ceremony, this felt like a wedding. Far too much like a wedding. America felt like she was waiting for a pastor to appear over her shoulder and tell Maxon that he could kiss the bride. But instead of an audience of family, this was the rich and famous of Angeles and Illéa and they would just as soon put their daughters where she sat. She had to remember that, no matter how much the people professed to love her in the polls, or promised their support. There would always be a few.

Maxon took the items from Gavril with a nod of thanks. All she had to do was stay seated and nod at the right times, but her fingers were trembling as she clasped them together in her lap. America was pretty sure the entire ballroom could tell she was nervous. Maxon offered a small smile as he turned to face towards her, tiara in one hand and ring box in the other. He flicked open the lid of the wooden box with one finger, placing the tiara on its own little stand between the thrones. His crown glittered in the light, blinding America as he moved. The rest of the room turned blurry as he gave her a deep bow.

"Lady America, I request the honor of your hand in marriage," he said clearly, using the same precisely enunciated voice that he had always used to speak to his father. The little black microphone clipped to his lapel played his words out over hidden speakers, making them sound majestic and as if they were something to be shared with the public, even though she wanted anything but.

She met his eyes, taking a quick breath. This was happening, actually happening. His hand removed the ring from its small box and she nodded silently. A nod that would be broadcast all around the world at this moment. Apparently, she wasn't really allowed to say much throughout this whole extravaganza, since it was, according to the law, her duty to marry Maxon. Of course she actually wanted to, but somewhere in protocol it stated she was supposed to be some opinionless person.

As Maxon presented the ring, she had an inane urge to laugh. She chanced a quick look at her ring- the first one. It always amused her, wondering what Maxon would have done if he had to propose to Kriss with that ring, since it had her birthstone on it. She could just imagine the look on Kriss' face.

"America," Maxon hissed, obviously trying to hold back his own urge to laugh. She almost mouthed back What? before she realized that she needed to hold out her hand, hoping her blush wasn't too obvious, seeing as she was receiving the dubious honor of an internationally televised engagement… Party? Ceremony?

Maxon slipped the golden ring on her finger. it was simple, with one large diamond and three gradually smaller ones on each side. To anyone else, they would find it beautiful, stunning, drop-dead gorgeous- the words that had come out of the jeweler's mouth as he handed it over to them. It fit perfectly next to her real ring, but it was much less special. The design was that of the traditional Illéan Royal Engagement Ring. No matter how much she loved Queen Amberly, she had no interest in sharing her engagement ring; she much preferred Maxon's design, something custom, just for her.

The guests all clapped respectfully. it sounded horribly forced, like someone had pressed a button and they were piping applause through one of the palace's electronic music players. Before she could place her hand back in her lap, Maxon pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles. She dearly wished that he had kissed her properly instead, although she knew that in all likelihood that would have ended with Silvia in the throes of a heart attack.

Maxon turned and picked up the velvet cushion that the tiara was secured to, standing out against the dark fabric. He didn't have to say anything for this part- all he had to do was place it on her head. It was made to fit without the dozens of pins that normally would hold up a tiara or crown, something to be grateful for amongst all the forced ceremony and unnecessary spectacle. Half the time after Maxon wore his crown, if she ran her hand through his hair she would find at least one pin.

The tiara was delicate and covered with hundreds of tiny sapphires and diamonds. It was made of hundreds of thin, braided strands of gold, arching to a point in the center. Maxon carefully placed it on her head, avoiding the elaborate braids as he pressed down gently to force the small combs to take old in her hair. It wasn't that heavy, all things considered, but it was still uncomfortable. The ends dug into her scalp, reminding her of the same message the throne brought.

Don't be too comfortable.

* * *

She stood, taking Maxon's proffered arm. The room suddenly seemed to come into focus as every person in the huge hall started applauding loudly. America couldn't believe the ceremony was over already. It had gone far too quickly for something she had wanted to treasure, an official marker of her relationship with someone she loved more than anything. Maxon leaned over to press a kiss to her temple and the clapping got louder.

America imagined that she could hear the thump of Silvia's body as she fainted.

They carefully descended the stairs, joining the crowd that pressed in on them as soon as they stepped down, a suffocating blanket of perfume and expensive jewelry. The band started playing more upbeat music that made her want to dance almost instinctually, despite her absolute lack of talent. Servers were swirling among the crowd, offering trays of champagne or delicate hors d'oeuvres. America snatched a chocolate- covered strawberry as one passed, popping it into her mouth carefully so she didn't smear her lipstick. Maxon laughed next to her, the odd, wheezing laugh endearing now instead of annoying.

"What?" she asked, swallowing the delicious berry.

"You're adorable, darling," he said, using his thumb to wipe away a bit of chocolate from her lip.

"You could have just kissed it away," she suggested, raising an eyebrow. Around them, the guests had started dancing, spinning in time to the music. Maxon placed a hand on her waist, taking her non-chocolatey hand in his other. They started to sway to the music, moving almost in place. Somehow, she managed to not step on the toes of every person around her and no one had quite yet stood on her dress, probably out of fear of Silvia.

"Ah, but we already gave Silvia one heart attack. I do need her around. I don't have the patience to plan parties and menus. That's why I'm marrying you," he teased, pulling her closer as the music slowed. His medals clinked softly as they moved, caught up in each other.

"Mm. Well, then, I believe you can have this tiara back," she said.

"Okay," he amended hastily. "I'm also marrying you for your wonderful, shining, glowing personality." Maxon kissed her forehead softly. His warm, strong arms enclosed her body, looking to all the world like he would never let her go. To America, it was pure comfort, pressed close together, his medals silenced between them. "And the fact that you're gorgeous, of course. Have I told you that yet?"

"I don't know, your Majesty. I could always stand to hear it again," she teased, adrift in his arms. her dress spun out behind them, floating above the wooden floor. "After all," she added, softly enough for only him to hear. "One can never help being born into perfection."

Maxon's eyes sparkled in the warm light. "I do suppose someone so perfect deserves to hear it," he murmured, ducking close enough to place a kiss on her collarbone before ducking away, a half grin gracing his face as she spun away, to the end of his arm's length before tucking back into his body. Something about the night was magical, she mused- no one had been trod on yet, at least not of her own doing.

The music sped up a beat. More guests joined the already crowded floor, so many that she could barely see the drapes on the walls, like she the floor she was dancing on had disappeared. She saw Mary, who was dancing with a guard near the edge of the floor, her deep green dress standing out, even though most of the other women in the room also wore dark, wintry jewel tones. Everything was gorgeous under the lights and the music, everything was perfect and hazy and soft.

"It's a very good thing I love you," she said, doing her best to keep up with the music. Maxon held out his arm for another twirl and she complied, the room spinning wildly around, a dizzy scene of lights and color. Someone ran into her back as she returned to Maxon's arms. Something jabbed at the top of her spine, like she'd been hit by a spinning, overlong necklace. But the space around her was comfortably empty of people when she turned to check. Instead, it was a murmured, soft complaint near Maxon's ear, barely audible over the music and the people, that was her acknowledgement. The crowd seemed to get louder and louder and everything started to spin, even when she was hardly moving. The band multiplied before her eyes, becoming a full symphony orchestra whose music boomed out over the celebration one moment, burningly loud, before fading the the sound of a single violin, playing alone in a dark room by a girl who missed home, and family, and hated her current predicament while at the same time in love with it. Her shoes clung to her feet, too tight, too loose, and too tight again, forcing her to sway wildly, legs suddenly turning to ribbons. The sweet, cloying scent of desserts became nauseating, hanging like a fog over the room, a shimmering, faint cloud drifting wildly. Maxon eyed her, obviously concerned.

"Let's go sit down," he said after she stepped on his foot for the fifth time in a row in the span of thirty seconds, or maybe thirty minutes, she could have agreed with either. His hand gripped hers tightly, like he was afraid to let her go.

"Sorry," she managed as he led through the crowd, clearing a thin pathway through the dancers. Everything was misty, like the colors that descend over vision when one stands up too quickly, and the women's dresses were reaching towards her as they spun of their own volition. The music alternately sped up and slowed, like it was in a competition with itself. She hurried to keep up with Maxon as they reached the edge of the dance floor. He pushed me into an empty chair at a small round table. The tables were draped in white tablecloths that brushed against the dark floors, flitting around her feet like tiny ghosts. A few glass champagne flutes were scattered across the tabletop, along with a discarded golden plate, the remains of a tea cake and a small fork left on it. A waiter swooped in, collecting the items on a tray before disappearing again, but no matte rhow hard America tried she couldn't follow his path, and as soon as he was ten feet away he was effectively gone to her.

Maxon dragged another chair next to hers and sat down heavily. His hair had a mind of its own, golden strands waving aimlessly, entwining themselves with his crown, reaching out for her, longer and longer until they evaporated. Her spine ached like it had when she was healing from the bullet wound, a mindless, numb pain that burned from her skin through her body, ending somewhere around her heart. She couldn't focus on him at all, she realized, and that was her last coherent thought.

* * *

Maxon grasped one of her hands in both of his, running his shaky thumb over the engagement rings. His hands were warm on America's, which felt like they'd been dipped in icy water, and perhaps left there for several hours. His crown doubled in her vision and made itself weightless, floating just above his head, the golden strands of hair reaching out for it, trying to pull it closer. Back to Earth.

She had a pounding headache.

"Are you alright, America?" he asked, biting at his lip. His voice sounded oddly loud, louder than the music and the guests. Why wasn't anyone else hearing him? His voice pounded against her eardrums. "America?"

"M' alright," she slurred. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, heavier than lead. "S' okay. Go back 'n' dance, Mackin." Her head bobbed forwards as her muscles turned to rubber and she fell forwards, dropping into the security of his arms.

"Are you ill?" he asked softly. She didn't think so, but it sure felt like she'd downed a few bottles of poisoned champagne.

"Di'int," she said, shaking her head. Ouch. That was a mistake. Someone had taken a hammer to her brain at the action, pounding relentlessly as her brain bounced against her skull, turning her view of the room into hundreds of images, vibrating across the space. Maxon sighed, shifting closer. Thank God everyone was still dancing, completely ignoring the pair. Everything seemed to be spinning. The only thing holding steady was Maxon's hands on her head, stroking her hair, gently touching her shoulder and brushing over the lace covering her.

Maxon sighed, running his thumb along the curve of her ear as she stared up at him, a halo of blonde hair against the golden lights.

"America, we're going to go behind the curtain and find Silvia, okay?" He stood, pulling her limp body up with him. A waiter in a sharp tuxedo offered a tray of champagne but Maxon waved one hand just long enough for America to stumble again, and the waiter was gone before he caught her. She rocked and swayed as they walked along the edge of the room, trying as best as she could to not totally embarrass Maxon with the last of her conscious thoughts. The progress was painfully slow, ten seconds to walk five feet and then thirty minutes to make it another two, or at least that was her impression. She had known, fifteen minutes ago, that she wasn't drunk, logically, but she was so off-balance that it was as if she'd just forgotten the drinking part of the equation.

They ducked between a golden curtain and a golden wall, immediately enclosed in warmth and darkness. The area was adorned with just a few lights for safety's sake and the faint glow of fairy lights. The space was no wider than two chairs, placed side-by-side, and Maxon struggled to support her and not brush against the curtain. The thick fabric muffled the sounds of the party outside, even the band's earshattering noise that seemed to bother only America. Maxon held her arm tightly, supporting almost all of her weight.

"Stay here, alright? I'm going to go find Silvia. Just sit down," he instructed, carefully lowering them both to the ground. His hand brushed against her spine and she winced as a sharp pain lanced through her body.

"Ow," she mumbled, leaning her head against the cool stone wall. The floor wavered before tipping wildly to one side, leaving her grasping at the floor to stay upright, despite Maxon's apparent effortless balance.

"What hurts, darling?" asked Maxon. He ran his trembling hand across her shoulder and back again and she jumped when he hit the spot where the icy, burning pain tore down her spine. Maxon cursed, crouching next to her and peering at her, despite the darkness.

"Hurts," she mumbled again.

"Shh. You're burning up, America. You're sure you're not ill?" he asked gently, running his hand over her forehead and tucking away a loose strand of hair.

"Dunno, Mackin," she managed blearily, closing her eyes against the confusion. But it only brought a bursting rainbow of afterimages pressed against her eyelids. The pale curtains stood out like ghosts in the darkness, swirling with their own life. Maxon was a blur nearby, his medals clinking loudly again, this time discordant, like an untuned piano.

Images flooded her consciousness. Kenna and Kota and she, as children, on Christmas. The sad chirp of Gerad's violin as he hit another note badly. May, spinning wildly through the house, wearing a pretty dress. She was wearing a pretty dress. Hadn't she told Mary so? Didn't Maxon compliment it earlier?

"I'll be right back, okay? Don't move," he said. His voice made her head pound, the man with the hammer returning with a vengeance. Maxon pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek before standing again and disappearing into the darkness.

"Wasn't gonna," she muttered as her vision blurred even more. The curtains reached out to her, wanting to enfold her in their embrace like they were Maxon's warm arms. She closed her eyes, but the headache didn't subside. Her tiara felt was a lead weight, pressing into her skull, nails driving into her just behind her ears in that particularly bony spot.

Suddenly, she heard- actually, felt- footsteps hurrying towards her limp body. They stopped at her side and she blinked her eyes open, but she couldn't make out a face between the blur and the darkness.

"America?" the person asked. Their voice was quiet, almost a whisper. Were they back to continue hammering into her skull? Even at a whisper, the pain redoubled. She couldn't tell what they were wearing, but it didn't look like Maxon's uniform. No medals glinted in the dim light. The person reached out a hand, brushing it over her hair.

"Mm-hmm," she agreed. "Who you?" She winced. Silvia was going to murder her and so she tried again.

"Who… Who are… Are you?" The words were slurred even to her hazy brain.

The figure didn't respond. Instead, they reached down and picked her up, thick arms pressing against the underside of her knees and the middle of her back. America didn't feel any panic as she was cradled in the arms. Her head tipped back as her eyes closed once more and she started drifting towards sleep. To the best of her currently questionable deductive skills, this was a nurse or orderly. Maxon would be there in a minute, towing Silvia and maybe Gavril. No, he'd leave Gavril to handle the mess she'd created by leaving. Silvia would chew her out for her grammar.

May, spinning wildly. Kota in our make-believe boat, but now it wasn't so make believe, rocking in a storm, water splashing everywhere, lightning bursting-

Her head was still pounding. Every footstep the person took made it worse. They weren't being gentle, tried to fight off sleep. Maxon would need reassuring that she was okay.

A door creaked open and they passed through. Her head knocked a staccato pattern on the door jamb, but she barely felt it, or at least it was just a minor addition to the pain. Another set of footsteps joined us and she could tell the two people theyre speaking, but she couldn't make out their words. She really, really wanted to sleep. Sleep was a tantalizing prospect, a thick white cloud that promised to blanket all her pain.

Kenna, announcing her engagement, but the room swirled and they were all falling instead of laughing.

After what felt like an hour, another door opened in front of them. Cool night air rushed into the hallway, making a loose strand of hair tickle her ear. Somehow, her tiara was still attached. She could feel it digging insistently into her head.

A few more feet, then the creak of a car door. Her body was unceremoniously dumped in the backseat. Someone ripped her shoes off and she let out a sigh of relief. Her feet had been killing her. But then she could feel something like a rope winding around her ankles tightly. It couldn't be a rope. Why would Maxon, or Doctor Ashlar, use a rope? Then her wrists. The seat of the car was cracked vinyl, but it was downy from age and comfortable. The car door slammed, cutting off the cool draft of air that had been washing over her face. America could hear people get into the front doors. The car creaked angrily again. She wondered why anyone would have a broken down car at this party. Most of the guests were obscenely rich.

Someone tore her tiara off. Her headache became a little better as the prongs released their hold on her skull, leaving a faint burning sensation. A radio clicked, making its way through her hazy brain.

"We've got her," said someone in the front. The car rumbled into gear, rocking her from side to side as it stumbled away from the glimmering Palace.

Tiny bells, ringing, as Gerad played and her own voice, singing a soft lullaby, and then her mother's and then her father's, an unnervingly mournful tune.

And then her dream blended together and they were all screaming.

* * *

 _9/7/16_

 _Thank you._

 _-Dreams_


	3. Long Live The Dead

_The Rules of Engagement_

 _Chapter Three_

 _Long Live The Dead_

* * *

A voice broke through the haze around America, slowly and then all at once, an icy splash on the senses.

First, a rough, hacking cough, then a man's tired voice: "How much did you give her?"

Her vision was monochrome and indistinct, her eyes blending together the walls and figures of their own accord. Propped up against something with an inherent chill, no matter her body resting against it, she was racked with chills, the thin material over her skin almost making the cold worse instead of better. Frozen to the bone, with half her senses barely operating, her head pounded wildly in an attempt to keep up. She darted from one small fascination to another as she awoke, eyes fastening on a ragged buttonhole, or the rusted silver shine of a cheap watch band. The deep voices of two men, or maybe three, faded in and out, her twisted hearing turning the words into more sinister things.

Finally, she could make out something distinct.

"Hell if I know how many drugs she's on," said a man, perhaps the one with the ragged buttonhole. As they leant closer, their forms became more obvious, leering monsters staring her down, wolves come to prey on their innocent victim. America tried to rub at her eyes, but she only succeeded in bashing herself, right in the eyes, with both hands. Her arms were bound together with manacles. The clinking metal rubbed tightly against her skin and through the fog a burst of pain at her wrists alerted her to the exploding blisters from the bindings.

Heavy footsteps shook the floor as one man came even closer, frayed and worn shoes planting themselves firmly on the gems and expensive fabric that was currently spread across the damp floor. The dress hugged her tightly in her bent pose, forcing shallow and explosive breaths through her cracked lips.

As quick as a snake, the man reached out, his rusty watch glinting in the dim light, and slapped her cheek. The dull _thwack_ seemed to reverberate in her skull and again came the sensation of her brain bouncing from side to side. But other than a small wince, America was far too exhausted, her limbs to heavy to react.

"She dead?" the first voice asked. _No,_ she wanted to shout as her first coherent thoughts splattered across her mind. Definitely _not_ dead. Judging by their treatment of her alive, dead she was likely to be burnt or slapped just for the fun of it. The man's rough hand tugged on the chains binding her and they rattled unpleasantly, the clinking echoing around the small space. It was reminiscent of somethings she _knew,_ almost inherently; a sound connected to someone, something that she couldn't place.

America jumped as the man drew closer with a blast of hot, garlicky breath uncomfortably close to her face. Her body tensed as he invaded her personal space, an invasion she was forced to endure thanks to the chains and the exhaustion flooding every nerve.

"Naw," said a second man, his voice tinged with the same elegant drawl she had heard before, but his rough manner turned it menacing. Another tug on the chains and red warmth carved its path silently down her skin. The coppery tang seemed to immediately fill the room like a cloud, something in the drugs she'd been given making it overpowering.

Despite the chill, no breeze ruffled the air, only that of the men's breath, and so the scents piled on top of one another. In the dark of the prison, it was suffocating. Mildew and mold must have grown in abundance, but no one would have been able to tell if it was always so, so dark.

America forced down a shudder as the man pressed two gnarled fingers to her neck to check for a pulse, despite her wide-open eyes. "She's alive."

A quick pause, then a less accented voice, that of the third: "Doesn't matter either way, I'd wager. Th' King would still pay for her body if he loves her that much." Raucous laughter burst, something shocking in all the dreariness.

 _The King- a KING- loves me?_ she wondered. The words sounded odd even in her head. The King loved _her?_ What was she, a captured girl in a thin dress, pressed against a cold wall in an even colder prison?

One of the men's laughter turned to an admiring whistle. Picking up her left hand, his damp palm slid against her own as his nails bit into her skin.

"Whoee. How much'll we get for _those_? Gotta be some Two that'll want 'em." What _she_ wanted was to yank her hand away, aim for the approximate region of his face, and slap him as hard as humanly possible. But still she couldn't see properly and still she couldn't move. Hot hatred flooded her, hatred at not being able to do anything while these men contemplated her death and her independence and even her mind. She couldn't remember who they were, or what had happened to her, but she _knew_ , as solidly as anything, that she hated them.

* * *

America shivered as another draft swept through the room. The paralysis had to be receding, because she could feel again and the draft was, to say the least, making itself known. The thin layers of her dress were useless, especially since they had slid upwards. The skirt was stuck around her knees now and there was nothing she could do about it, not that gauzy, floaty blue material was much use, being the sort of fabric to fly out when a little girl spun. The cell had gotten no brighter, for it lacked windows, and certainly no less dingy. To any outsider, America's body slumped against the wall was long dead, her lips bluish from the cold and her body relaxed, having given up shivering hours ago, or maybe days. She blinked, hard, and as the tears coating her vision melted away she realized she could make out the sharp lines of the cell door and the organic cracking in the stones. Even though they were merely faint shadows, regaining at least one sense was sublime.

But before she could do much examination, the drawl of a new man interrupted her.

"She's 'wake," he called, his voice deep and steady, less untailored than the other guards. The cell door was flung open with a bang and a second man rushed in, both taking the few steps necessary to crouch in front of her. His partner's clothing hung off his body like so much tissue and he looked starved; his eyes were sunken and he had no muscling, at least not any visible under the flannel shirt and cutoff shorts of an indiscriminate material. The man in front of her wasn't heavyset, exactly, but he seemed far more healthy, especially for what she assumed to be a criminal. Both wore red bands around their arms and shoes that had certainly seen better days. The heavier man had a black, blob-ish tattoo adorning his left forearm, of a design that couldn't be seen in the dim.

They both stared openly and America shrank away, her skin prickling. Neither bore a weapon, but that hardly meant very much with all their loose clothing. The thinner man held up one hand and made a rude gesture at her, both men snickering.

"Can you see that?" he asked. America did not deign to respond, but she wasn't sure if she could have found her voice anyway. The man's hand was smudged with dirt and callouses and his pinky finger was truncated, leaving a short stump that was wrapped in a piece of bloody cloth. It had probably been white once, but now it was stained deep red and brown. "I asked you a question!" he snapped irritably, slapping her with an open palm.

America mumbled a form of assent that was somewhere between "Yes" and "Screw you." She concealed a giggle at the thought, imagining her mother's face if it was said aloud. She had to have a mother, right? But she couldn't ask, not with her mouth drier than a desert and her jaw aching miserably. Yet again her thoughts turned hazy, drifting aimlessly as the men faded in and out. As the skinnier man became double headed, she forced a giggle past cracked lips, for what was one to do besides laugh?

"Nutter. The nutter king is marrying a nutter queen," said the refined drawl, shaking his head and leaning back against the wall, arms crossed firmly over his chest.

"You did drug her," reminded the starved man, shaking her shoulder. His hand looked like the claw of some exotic animal. No, it looked like a frog's foot. Wait- no, she couldn't decide.

"Drugged me," she managed to slur, giggling again. "Why?" Suddenly, a sharp pinch radiated through her shoulder and she slowed again, like her body was being overtaken by something unfriendly.

Suddenly, the men's faces came back into focus. Her shoulder was burning again, she realized, as the paralysis began to fade. The skinny one was holding an empty syringe, the metal gleaming ominously in the light. He broke off the needle, then threw it on the floor before tucking the empty tube into his pocket. Even with the sound of the guards' movement, she could hear it fall.

* * *

"She's awake now," he said, eyeing America after taking a safe step back. Her headache had subsided almost instantly, only a lingering soreness to remind her of the little man with his hammer that had been determined to drive her out of her own skull. The world was sharp and her mind far more sound, but her heart was beating at a million miles a minute. It was as if everyone- all three of them- could hear her pulse, thrumming against her chest. Blood whooshed in her ears. She felt ready to run a thousand miles.

"Leave 'er, I guess. He'll be in later." The heavier man stood and trundled away, his footsteps making the floor vibrate. The breathing skeleton shrugged and followed him away. With a clang, the cell door fell closed, as ominous as two swords hitting. The pale, weak light disappeared and she was left in darkness.

America took a deep breath, trying to assess her injuries. Her hands were shaking. From nerves or the chill, it was impossible to tell. The damp cell combined with the icy drafts seeped through her thin gown. The manacles on her wrists ensured that they continued to burn and liquid continued to seep from the wounds, but it was a mere gnat compared to the pain of her shoulder. Shivering, America attempted to rub her arms, but the shackles prevented movement much more than a couple of inches for each hand.

The only sound in the small cell was the steady drip of water. A droplet spattered on her shoulder, running in rivulets down her skin like icy fingers. It reminded her of the pleasant chill that came with a cool drink on a hot day in summer, minus the sunshine, the cool drink, and any vestiges of happiness.

 _How did I get here?_

She had no idea.

* * *

The clang of iron on iron woke America from an uneasy sleep. Strands of hair stuck to her face, despite the fact she was freezing. The ominous noise sent her heart back to racing. The soft thump of rubber-soled shoes echoed in the small space. She pushed her body upright, leaning against the wall with the best posture manageable. It was a gesture of futility.

The man approaching towered over her at easily six and a half feet tall. Light illuminated only his silhouette, hiding any facial features. He leant down, yanking on the chain holding her wrists together. She bit back a complaint as the shackles rubbed against the slices and blisters already there. In the light, the blood must have been plainly obvious, yet he yanked on the chain again, harder this time.

"Good morning, dear," he said genially. He held her arms above her head and she let him, too tired to do much else. The epithet gave a sharp pang of recognition. Someone else called America that. Someone named… No, she couldn't remember. Her thoughts were scrabbling along a barren wasteland, looking for something that didn't exist. The man yanked on her wrists again and this time she did let out a soft squeal of protest as the shackles tore into her skin.

" _I said,_ good morning, dear," he repeated. His tone belied no malice, despite his words. One dark arm reached out to the wall, flicking a light switch. Her cell was bathed in harsh white light, reaching into every corner and blinding me. The flat strips attached to the ceiling gave the man's features an equally flat appearance.

"I am _not_ your dear," she snapped, cursing her sore head. If she couldn't think straight and this man obviously could, she couldn't afford a battle of wits with him. If he wanted information, she had nothing to give; she remembered nothing at all. The man grinned, a nasty, slimy expression. His teeth were blindingly white and perfectly even, unlike the lackeys earlier. They looked fake, but where would a criminal acquire fake teeth?

She took in a shuddering breath at the gesture. The wall seemed twelve times colder and her dress felt like it had magically become soaked through with ice water. The man glanced up and down her body quickly before meeting her eyes again.

"Well, I see you're having a most excellent day," he said easily. The beetle black eyes were unnerving. They pierced through the room, making the air around me suddenly drop to fifty degrees below zero. The hand holding her chains opened suddenly and her hands dropped to the floor.

"Yes," said America, trying _not_ to jump up and rip off his arm. "A wonderful day, down here in a damp, cold cell, shackled to the wall." He smirked, tilting his head to one side like a child. Like her siblings- what were their names? No, they didn't exist. They couldn't if she didn't know even their names. Alone in her problems, she folded in on Herself.

The man used one thick, stubby finger to tilt up Her chin. "Is that so?" He pursed his lips in another childish, pouting gesture. "Poor Princess. No more fancy castle, with hundreds of slaves waiting on you hand and foot. I can see how that might be a difficult transition." She shuddered at his gentle touch. His finger was smooth and soft, despite the clothing that gave him the appearance of a homeless man. His grip kept her head firmly in place, forced to meet his eyes.

"What castle?" she mumbled, trying to twist away from his hands. The man clucked his tongue softly.

'Oh, Princess, playing dumb won't work with us. Of course, you may already be stupid if you thought you were safe." His tone, that of a parent scolding a child that was pretending to be asleep, was grating. America felt like someone was playing music with her nerves.

"I have literally, absolutely no idea what you are talking about," she repeated, anger clearing her cotton-filled brain. Now it was his turn to be confused. For a heartbeat, he looked absolutely stunned. Then the smile reappeared, feral and violent. Now, it could be noticed that his teeth seemed unusually sharp. If America could have thrown herself through the cement wall at her back and run, she would have without a second of hesitation. His nails dug into her chin as he twisted her head from side to side roughly.

"Oh, Princess, why didn't you just say so?" he snarled. His dark eyes shone, fringed by long childlike lashes. His words sent pangs of fear through her, rocketing around in the approximate region of her heart. It felt like she was about to have a heart attack, and not the sort that one recovers from.

But when she noticed the knives hidden under his ragged coat and the cruel smirk plastered to his face, she figured that would be preferable.

She gasped, and he hissed three words like a prayer.

" _Long live nobody."_

* * *

 _9/7/16_

 _Ahh, suspense, my old friend._

 _Don't cry too much, you might need those tears later, and I won't tell you if they'll be happy or... otherwise._

 _-Dreams_

 _p.s. please pardon my penchant for the theatrical_


	4. So Long As I Am Spoken Of

_The Rules of Engagement_

 _Chapter Four_

 _So Long As I Am Spoken Of_

* * *

His smooth fingers flicked to one of the knives, pulling it out of its sheath. In the harsh white light, America could see herself reflected in the meticulously clean blade. Her hair was half up, half down, and completely tangled, and her face was smudged with something the color of moss, like she had run her skin against mold. Before she could see much more, he pressed the blade under her chin. She flinched away instinctively from the sharp point, but there was nowhere to go.

Her heart fluttered again desperately, sending a film of terror across every nerve in her body. The feral grin never wavered as the man used his knife to tip her chin up, then slid it down so it rested above her artery. America had never been more aware of the thin layer of skin separating it from her blood, blood that would pour out in great spurts to match her terrified heart if the knife slipped even a millimeter. Inexorably, no matter how much she tried to move away, it felt like she was drawn closer to the blade, like it and she were the opposite sides of a magnet.

"See, Princess, she don't deal well with liars," he hissed. His hand twitched and America couldn't help herself. She twisted away violently, as far as she could while tied to a wall, and let out a small scream as the blade nicked through her skin. At that moment, she hated him with every fiber in her being. If only she could have gotten up and run him through with the same knife as a bead of blood trickled down her skin, hot and cold at the same time as waves of terror rolled over her, breaking into bolts of lightning that shattered her vision.

"You have something that we want."

"Sorry, sanity is non-transferable," she snapped, the slice on her skin burning like acid as her heartbeat sped ever faster.

"Clever _girl_. Just a little, _tiny_ girl," he said, leaning away from her defiance. His knife disappeared into his ragged coat and he stepped back, straightening with an air of absolute power. His expression gave nothing away, not that she had a spare brain cell to notice, each and every one consumed with the idea of escape.

She stared at him, determined. If one sentence could remove the knife from her throat, maybe she could give herself a little more power. Memory or no, America didn't want this man to be in control of her.

He spun and paced across the floor dramatically, making a sharp turn on his heel at the wall of the cell. With hands clasped behind his back like a soldier or politician, he looked incredibly formal, even in rags. He looked like someone she _knew_. A name burbled in her mind, just out of reach, and before she could make a wild grab his voice shattered her concentration.

"I lost _everything_ to you, you and your _true love,_ the murderer he is. But you wouldn't care. You would never care. Everything I've lost has just made your life easier. And we all know how much your type hates work." Low and hard, his voice brought goosebumps to her arms. "Gold digger," he snapped.

Her head started spinning again, but not from the drugs this time. Tendrils of memories formed before being whisked away again. It was like watching a storm about to break, hearing the thunder but never seeing the lightning.

"I don't have anyone," said America, defiant. "It's just me, myself, and I." She couldn't help but shrink a little inside at the rage on his face. Combined with the dagger and the blood trailing down her throat, it was enough for her to want to curl into herself and cry. But she was determined to appear relatively unafraid.

If she could.

* * *

The bright glow of the electric lights was gone a few hours later. Sitting in the damp, dark cell, America had nothing. No plan, no dream, not even the tiniest prayer for escape. Even if she did, without her memory she would have absolutely nothing to rely on. She had exactly one memory- her name- and one thing, a freezing dress that was about as useful for keeping warm as a tissue. When the man left, he had attached her chain to a bar above her head, forcing all the blood out of her arms. The blank tingling of a limb falling asleep had quickly spread to her shoulders and her muscles felt like gelatin. But if she relaxed into the chains, the hard, sharp edge of the manacles would shred her skin.

She was in an impossible position, in more ways than one.

America tipped her head back, pushing aside the headache as she leaned against the damp stones. Her pulse was throbbing in her throat, reminding her all too much of a gleaming knife and the acrid smell that had accompanied the man who wielded it.

The dank cell was almost perfectly bare. She'd had very little time to study it between her pounding head and interrogation, not that there was much to study. Her dress spread over the ground like the night sky, leaving her with the vague impression of a memory. Something with hundreds of voices and emotions, but nothing more.

She resisted the urge to slam her head against the wall as the thought slipped away. All she wanted was something to hang on to, something to grasp here in this prison full of men with knives and terrible breath and chains and iron bars. Something happy, something to use as a shield. But as she wracked her brain, the best she could come up with was something that felt like childhood, a little boy with dark hair and ragged clothes in a treehouse, and the little girl- herself, America realized- following his orders as they played. The boy smiled and shouted something, standing on the wooden floor with his feet braced wide, hands on a pretend wheel that was steering itself to nowhere. He ran his hands around the edge of his wheel and they both leaned sideways, pretending to fall over in the midst of a storm, rolling around on the wooden planks and giggling like nothing was funnier in the whole world. And perhaps to those two little children, nothing was. They got back up and continued their game, dodging the reaching arms of a giant sea monster, being swept out down the ladder and onto a messy lawn by a rogue wave before climbing back aboard their little ship, setting it to right and spinning wildly.

But suddenly the memory turned from childhood fantasy to a nightmare, the grass beneath the tree becoming black waves and the treehouse a little raft, sinking in a wild storm.

And America watched as the two little children drowned in a storm of their own making.

* * *

When America returned from the world of drowning children to freezing cells, it was with a bang. One of her jailors slammed open the door and her ears rang as the noise of steel on steel echoed around the small chamber. Two men hurried in, releasing her arms from the manacles but cuffing her wrists as soon as they reached her lap. she sighed in momentary relief as blood raced down her arms, but soon the tingles of the muscles reawakening turned to painful shudders as her fingers involuntarily clenched into fists.

"Move," grunted the first, roughly shoving her with a foot. He looked as if he was half dead, his lips tinted blue-purple against pale skin and pale hair and clothes that must once have been pale but at that moment were grimy and gray. His skinny foot barely moved her body and so she made her best attempt to scoot sideways appropriately until she was pressed into a corner. The gems on the blue fabric she wore were scattered across the floor where she had been sitting, glittering in the light. They leant the space a cheerful gleam, something America believed it was sorely lacking.

But, she quickly realized, she did not have much room to complain when she saw the pitiful form being dragged down the short hall.

A young woman, dressed in a thin shirt and shorts like she had been sleeping, was being tugged along roughly by two men. Her hair was lank around her face and she looked as if she'd been crying. America's heart instantly went out to her. At least she had a bit of extra fabric in her dress, but the prisoner being taken nearer and nearer had practically nothing. She shivered horribly, her eyes wide and arms clutched as close to her body as she could manage with the handcuffs. The sound of three sets of footsteps echoed angrily down the hall, two heavy and booming and the third, the woman's, America knew, much softer and uneven. As she came closer, her eyes met America's and her head snapped up. Her mouth widened into an 'O' as she let out a little gasp, sounding like she had just barely stopped herself before speaking.

The man that had shoved her gave her one last kick in the ribs before he and the second man in her cell took hold of the new girl, locking their hands around her upper arms. They practically threw her across the room and she landed in an undignified heap nearly atop America. Even before the girl had sat up, the men had disappeared, shutting the door with a clang. America could hear the lock click into place and the low murmur of fading voices before she turned her attention elsewhere.

The girl at her side still had a comically shocked expression on her face. Despite her appearance, she smelled sweet, like peaches and some sort of flower, and America realized now that she was closer that her hair was soaking wet, not greasy, and she was quite clean.

"Hello," she said quietly after the girl had managed to prop herself against the wall, cuffed hands in her lap and her legs tucked close to her.

"America!" whispered the girl, breaking into a smile. America stared at the girl for a second, wondering, if in the dim lighting, she had missed something. After all, she recalled nothing of this girl, sitting in front of her and looking delighted.

For another moment, she waited, utterly confounded. "I'm sorry…" she started. "But-"

The girl's face had fallen and she leaned away from America, mirroring the pose she had adopted with her head tipped back against the wall.

"I'm not sure why I expected you to remember me. You probably have bigger problems now," she sighed. "Anyway, for what it's worth, I'm Samantha Lowell? From Sonage?" America shook her head apologetically.

"I'm afraid I don't recall," she said, voice dropping even lower as she cast her eyes past the other girl's and towards the floor. But they both knew it was a question more than anything.

 _Who are you? Why are we here?_

The girl- Samantha- brought back nothing but a bright, hot glow, like studio lights-

"Studio!" America blurted suddenly.

Samantha immediately brightened, despite their circumstances. "Yes- I did hope you'd remember me, you were always kind during the Selection, even though we all knew-"

America winced. She hated to crush this girl- _Samantha_ \- 's hopes, but she certainly couldn't remember ever interacting with her.

"I don't remember anything. What's the Selection?" she said. The only thing she remembered being Selected for was, apparently, being locked in a dim, dark cell. Samantha's mouth dropped open, forming another perfect little 'O'.

"Is this all a joke or something?" Her voice rose in pitch, even though it was the same nervous whisper. "Did you kidnap me to play some elaborate practical joke, America? Is this your idea of _fun?"_

America's face hardened as she faced the other girl, before she let out a deep breath of defeat. "No! I have no idea who I am, let alone what my own sense of humor is! I'm wearing some pretty dress while lounging around on the floor, in chains, and occasionally being stabbed in the throat by some psychopath!"

Samantha was silent at this, and the quiet dropped, foglike, over their little cell. It was an unnerving silence, the sort of quiet where no one quite knows what to do, and it continued for a fair while. America dutifully studied a very uninteresting crack in the floor.

Eventually, their mutual shocked silence became deeper, as Samantha shivered against the wall and America shivered for her own reasons, none of which had to do with the temperature.

* * *

 _9/7/16_

 _Coming Soon: You'll Know... Soon_

 _Actually Coming Soon: Maxon, perhaps._

 _-Dreams_


	5. And Then There Was One

_The Rules of Engagement_

 _Chapter Five_

 _And Then There Was One_

* * *

He was screaming, and the world was toppling down around him as warm arms wrapped around his body and he fought, clawing at the restraint, the crown toppling off his head and crashing to the ground.

It was so close, so close, but they were anchoring him into place, surrounding him as his own anguish echoed, his eardrums telling him of their pain as his voice broke just long enough for a raspy, gasping, desperate breath before the sobs came, hoarse and raw in the darkness as he watched his sanity disappear into the distance. And he yelled again, the sound shattering as his throat closed. He screwed his eyes shut and they burned beneath his lids as another cry wracked his body, shuddering as he broke.

And in the face of his terror, everything was silent but his voice.

* * *

He awoke in darkness, the same deep black that it had been when he had fallen, and for a moment Maxon thought they had left him where he had dropped to the ground, fisting his hands in his hair as he ruined his white pants on the floors and as his shoulders had shook, turning from earthquakes to tremors and then to silence.

But when he opened his eyes, something he very much did not want to do, it was to the faint light of dawn that greeted him, and so for a moment he forgot.

The soft, citrus-clean scent that her hair left on his pillows beckoned him and he twisted towards her, only to find a blank pillow where strands of vivid red should be fanned. Instead of the warmth her body left when she'd risen before him, the sheets were icy cold.

And that made it all the worse, when he remembered.

* * *

Once he had risen, and dressed, and run his fingers through his hair to the point of disaster, and considered multiple times simply remaining in bed and forgetting, he walked outside.

Then down his hallway.

Past the guards, stock still at intervals with their gold epaulettes gleaming, the gold buttons on the double-breasted coats reflecting the unwelcome sun, and for a moment Maxon glared furiously at them and thoroughly considered sending them to New Asia. To die. But then he remembered, and he kept walking.

His shoes tapped on the floor as he made his way through the palace, a palace that had suddenly turned into his Palace instead of their home. So he stopped at a set of stairs and he could feel the eyes of the Royal Guard fastened on him as he looked around at the place he had lived for nineteen years with utter confusion, because he was lost without her.

* * *

When he stepped into his office five minutes later, he slammed the door shut and leaned back against it, already exhausted. But he found that for the first time that morning he was not alone.

Aspen sighed, then stood and shifted from foot to foot. "Maxon."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"Yes."

"We've… we've tried searching."

"Yes."

"I'm very sorry, Maxon."

Maxon settled heavily into his desk chair, punctuating the end of Aspen's sentence. His feet were flat on the floor, his back straight, but his head was bowed and he stared at nothing.

"You said that."

"Maxon…" Aspen followed protocol and returned to his own seat on the leather armchair, the deep brown leather marred with wrinkles from having been obviously slept on. The dark blue jacket that the Head of the Guard wore was thrown across the back and his cane abandoned at the lion-carved feet of the chair.

"Please don't, Aspen." When Aspen sprung up again, Maxon waved his hand despondently. "I meant don't mother me. If you missed it, my mother is dead. As is my father. As is, or soon will be, my fiancée." He scrubbed a hand against his face, the stubble that he hadn't cared about as rough as sandpaper on his skin.

"Try shaving, else you're likely to tear off your skin," advised Aspen, but the humor was gone from his voice and the typical glint in his eyes conspicuously absent.

Maxon ran one finger against his jaw again, contemplating the sensation. "I'll do it for the funeral."

Aspen pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily. If he kept this up, he'd be sighing more than breathing. He looked at Maxon for a long moment, trying to catch a glimpse of his eyes under the long lashes and his furrowed brow.

"Maxon." He waited for a handful of seconds and tried again. "Maxon." A third time, more insistently. "Maxon. _Dammit_ , look at me." And when the brown eyes met his green, he decided he would have rather not insisted on eye contact for this particular conversation, but he soldiered on anyway.

"She's not dead. We don't know where she is, but we know she's not dead."

UMaxon flapped a hand at him again, turning so he stared out the window at the rising sun. It looked just like her hair, he realized, and the hand fell into his lap again.

"She's not dead, and we can rescue her." This time Aspen tried pleading instead of anger, but the best response he received was the long, slow stare of someone haunted.

Maxon licked his lips. Paused. Covered his mouth with a hand. "You don't understand, Aspen. It's my fault. It's my fault." It came out as barely a whisper, but it resonated in the room the same as if Maxon had been using the king's voice that she liked to tease him about, to puff out her chest and plant herself in front of him and declare with absolutely no hesitation.

 _"I formally decree that His Dubious Majesty Maxon Calix Schreave will always and forever love his queen, Her Royal and Perfect Majesty America Singer Schreave, upon pain of death."_ And then he'd grab her in a bridal carry and she'd squeal and clutch his neck, giggling, and he'd lean down and plant a firm kiss on her lips.

But he shook his head and the dream faded from the forefront into the part of his brain where most of his memories of his father went, and he grimaced again. "I've caused this-"

Aspen bolted upright and stormed over, slamming his palms onto the mahogany of Maxon's desk, which rattled the heavy piece to the point that a reading lamp threatened to topple. "No. You didn't. But since I know you're stubborn enough to keep believing that no matter what I threaten to do, fine. Torture yourself, but you'd better help me." He laughed, a short bark before his face hardened again.

"I swear to God, Maxon, if you don't I will run you into the ground myself. So, move. I have something I have to show you, but it's not happening until you eat something, preferably including a few pots of coffee, and show up in Security A."

Maxon glared at him, but Aspen ignored the holes burning into his suit as he swept his coat off the chair and his cane, albeit in a rather stiffer move, off the ground, and stormed out.

Before the door slammed shut, Aspen's foot reappeared in frame and he shouted his last orders to the King: "And for my sake, make sure you bring more coffee."

* * *

As ordered, Maxon found something to eat. But instead of his typically hassled morning routine of ringing for a maid and requesting a pot of vanilla roast coffee and a bit of toast- or, now, double of whatever America had wanted- and eating half on his way to his office, he stood up, locked his office, and went to the kitchens himself.

He took the most direct route possible, wanting to avoid the Great Room, the gardens, the Women's Room- practically everything, really. So instead he took a staff elevator to the the first floor, hoping to avoid any guards. He wasn't sure he would be able to not blame them, too, for losing her.

The elevator thumped slightly, then the doors opened without the typical bell tone. The plain, ugly metal doors shuddered into place and he stepped off the linoleum floor inside to exchange it for the marble that existed even in the staff halls, gleaming in the fluorescents. His footfalls, the sound of fabric against fabric, even his breath, it all echoed loudly in the empty hall. The lack of guards left him with an odd unease, like all the furniture had been moved a bit without his knowledge and he was left to navigate in the dark.

Each doorway he passed was labelled. Some were offices of the chef, head maid, and other important staff, but there was also the laundry, the mailroom, and a handful of others he didn't much care to acknowledge. From what he could remember of the hall as a young prince, playing with the children of other dignitaries after sneaking away from the Women's Room, it was normally bustling, a thoroughfare for the hundreds of staff. As he had grown older, he had, on rare occasion, snuck away from balls and parties for handfuls of moments, often with Daphne or his English cousin, the now-King Eoan. The complete lack of anyone was more intimidating than anything else so far, he thought, for as long as he could possibly remember, service had always gone on. It ran the endless theater of the palace, the unnecessary yet ever-present display that Maxon had never been truly away from.

So when he finally entered the double doors at the end of the hall, he let out a small breath of relief that, in fact, his entire staff had not yet abandoned him. The room silenced as he entered, from the Head Chef in the front to the assistants and sous chefs working the ovens and stoves in the far of the room. There was a short, collective breath of _What in God's name do we do?_ before every person bowed, or curtsied, still clutching kitchen implements.

Immediately, Head Chef Lorraine was upon him. He filled the persona of jolly chef perfectly, his stomach rounded from a few too many taste tests and his white hat perched askew on a ruddy face.

"Your Majesty," he intoned respectfully, then bowed again. "What can I do for you?" The hat threatened to topple, but Maxon wouldn't have noticed.

Instead his eyes were locked with that of a blonde maid's, hers red rimmed and looking at him so helplessly that he knew America's shoulder-patting technique would hardly help now.

"Uh, um, a pot of vanilla roast, Chef, and one regular, and some toast or something, please. And if you'd excuse me?" Before the Chef had time to even acknowledge the request, he was off, weaving between dozens of staff manning flames, knives, and large cuts of meats. When he finally made it to Marlee's station, she was chewing on her lip as she methodically chopped red peppers.

"Hello, Marlee," he said quietly.

"Hello, Maxon," she parroted, setting down the knife and turning to face him.

Maxon nodded stiffly, more of a jolt than actually nodding. "I- I'm sorry. I was stupid, I took my eyes off her-"

But before he could finish blaming himself, she held up a hand. "Did you kidnap her? Did you kill her?"

"No, but-"

"No. You didn't. Therefore, stop blaming yourself, Maxon, I've already got Carter to deal with over this one." Marlee stared at him, her eyes puffy but her gaze resolute. "I'll help organize everything. I'm so sorry, truly, I am."

Maxon shook his head as all his worst fears returned with her words. For a moment, only one thing filled his head. America, lying in a pool of blood in the beautiful gown she had been wearing, and her hair dyed darker with the scarlet stain so it was impossible to tell what was hair and what was her life ebbing away.

He teetered on the edge of gasping like a drowning man, desperate and terrified, before letting out a shuddered breath. "Aspen- Officer Leger- he says she's not dead." He left off the "yet" inherent in the sentence, trusting her to make the connection.

Immediately, she brightened and Maxon realized why America, often cynical, had liked the optimistic girl so much.

"So go make a plan and get her back, then. You have control of an entire country, _Your_ _Majesty_. Use it. America needs you to stay focused. She's relying on you." And that was the right thing to say, rather than the childlike treatment he was sure to receive from almost everyone else in the palace, pandering and telling him what he wanted to hear.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. We can do this." He straightened up and began making his way back through the kitchen, dodging various staff members so engrossed in their work that they almost whacked the King in the forehead with a whole pig. As he reached the door a maid appeared next to him with a cart full of small snacks and a coffee service.

"I'll take that, thank you-" he glanced at her pin- "Annelise." She blushed and shook her head rapidly.

"It's fine, sir, I can manage!"

"Best to let the manly men get on with it, Annelise," said Marlee, smiling at the utter confusion gracing the maid's face. When Maxon glanced at her, she had shed the apron and knife and was now just in a blouse and maid's skirt with a sweater over one arm.

"Yes, thank you, Marlee- wait, where are you going?"

"With you, of course. America is my best friend. I owe her, and even if I didn't…" She let the sentence trail off as she shoved the little cart at him before sweeping open the doors in a grand gesture. "Come on, then." Figuring he had nothing to do but acquiesce, he followed her back down the hall and into the elevator, a fair bit less terrified.

* * *

When the door to Security Room A opened, Maxon had hardly expected the crowd that nodded and bowed as he walked in with the cart and Marlee. Half of the advisers were missing- all the ones more loyal to his father, he realized. Replacing them was America's mother, who had been staying in the palace for the wedding with her siblings as they moved into the new home outside the city. America's maid and Silvia were both there, too, looking shocked and grim respectively.

As usual, George Stavros headed the council, standing by the chair to the right head of the table. Aspen was on the left and then a variety of his underlings and other security personnel down the side of the long table. Every man bowed and the women curtsied as Maxon hurried his seat, feeling like his thirteen-year-old self again, the one horribly intimidated by this room.

Aspen pulled out the chair as he approached and in exchange Maxon slapped the two pots of coffee he carried on the table, one for each of them. He very nearly spilled hot coffee all over the expensive mahogany table, but he hardly cared.

Aspen smirked. "Do I get a cup?"

"You got your coffee hand-delivered by the King, I think you'll live." And with that, and a few muffled snickers from the room, he slipped into his seat and the meeting began.

* * *

 _9/19/2016_

 _See? Nobody's died._

 _Yet._

 _I hope everyone is enjoying the story and I can't wait to hear from you all!_

 _-Dreams_


	6. They All Fall Down

_The Rules of Engagement_

 _Chapter Six_

 _They All Fall Down_

* * *

Two pots of coffee and four hours later and they had gone nowhere. Magda had excused herself after an hour to go be with the rest of the family while they waited for news. Stavros, always composed, was very nearly to the point of banging his head against the wall if his expression was any indication. Along with Magda, Mary had left, claiming to need to go back to work. Maxon, however, suspected that she had left due to her extraordinary lack of comfort in the setting, a maid called upon to advise the King.

And as for Maxon, he was deflated. The little bubble of hope Marlee had created was receding rapidly with every new update from the guards searching satellite images and communications in the last two weeks.

"Nothing," the fifteenth runner thus far said, peeking around the door. "We're still searching, Your Majesty." And at first he had been encouraging, telling them they were sure to find her and he believed in them and of course, _of course_ she would reappear, because she was America and she was stubborn as hell.

But, nothing.

The pad of paper in front of him was evidence of his decline from neat notes in the handwriting he had perfected after the glares of disappointment from his father to shorthand to doodles to a final slash across the lot of it in red pen. Maxon had run out of ideas like a train losing steam and without something to work towards he floundered once more, tapping his pen on the table for some semblance of control. He knew the action irritated poor Silvia to no end, but he didn't have it in him to stop. Or start. Or do anything at all.

"What if we start interrogating possible witnesses?" offered Kaffen, a junior security officer. Gavril Fadaye, having joined them after spending a few hours that morning on damage control (essentially, _strongly_ advising any news source to not say a single thing, if they had heard at all), shook his head, the normally dapper and flamboyant man dressed in a dark suit with the jacket over his chair and his tie loosened just slightly.

"We can't. I've already used up all my favors this morning and in the face of all this it'd be a quite a poor decision to start forcibly interrogating people if we don't want the country to know."

The entire group collapsed in on itself once more with the air of men being sent off to their deaths. Maxon, however, already looked rather dead. Another round of sighs chorused as the country's top men and women exhaustedly examined the paperwork and maps yet again, some reading silently over their notes with their lips moving like they were studying for exams.

Suddenly, Aspen sat bolt upright. Maxon jolted up with him like he'd been struck by lightning, something about his friend's posture resonating with him. Aspen turned towards his team and the remaining legislative advisors with the unmistakeable air of a man on a mission, for better or for worse.

"Out, all of you, except you, Avery, and get Woodwork up here for a moment." Avery glanced questioningly at Marlee and Aspen shook his head vehemently. "No, the other Woodwork." Shocked by Aspen's words, the room was soon filled with the shuffling and scraping of papers and chairs as all but seven of them left, and then Officer Avery went too, leaving them with six.

When the door slammed shut none too gracefully, Maxon gave Aspen a dull glare for a second.

"I'm supposed to be the only one that does that." But it was hardly a protest, more of a thank you, because Maxon was having a hard enough time without having to act kingly on top of it all.

"Yes, well, my idea isn't for their ears," said Aspen shortly, pulling a small phone from his breast pocket. It glinted silver in the lights and Maxon immediately recognized it.

"Do I even want to know why you have my very secure _private_ phone for calling in military maneuvers and nuclear warfare?" he asked, lifting one eyebrow.

Aspen snorted and turned it on, pulling up a short list of contact numbers from what Maxon could see. "Like I was going to leave it in your room last night with the rebels around. And I'm not giving it back until you promise not to call a bomb strike on the entire country, this palace included." Stavros gave his own snort from Maxon's right as he ran his hands through his hair in exasperation.

"You stole the most secure phone in the country, Leger."

"Yes."

"Do I get to know why I no longer have control over my military?"

"If you'd listen, yes." And then Aspen placed the ringing phone on the table so they could all hear it. It rang for an inordinate amount of time while the whole room listened curiously. Gavril maintained his relatively relaxed posture, but it was obvious they were all intrigued. Maxon inched closer until he was very nearly in Aspen's chair instead, to better hear the response.

When he heard the voice come through the speaker, he jumped. Even though he had only heard it a handful of times, something was familiar, a family resemblance almost, something he knew intrinsically. None of the others save Aspen seemed to recognize it at all.

"Hello, Your Majesty."

"Hello, August."

* * *

"So I hear you have a problem, your Majesty?" They'd gone around the room quickly, introducing Maxon's advisors to August Illéa, who was, technically, the proper heir to the Illéan throne, if one discounted a murderous queen or two and a coup d'état two generations back. Gavril Fadaye had, upon being introduced, immediately adopted a look of absolute terror, which Maxon assumed came from having just learned that it would at some point be _his_ job to convince the people of Illéa that Maxon _Schreave_ was the rightful king, not August Illéa, who, just-so-very coincidentally, shared the first King's name. On the other hand, Stavros looked rather bewildered. It was the very first time he had ever had direct communication with a rebel, let alone their leader, although it was questionable as to if the Northern Rebels were actually rebels anymore. It was just as much of a shock for Maxon, being able to witness firsthand a confused and floundering Stavros.

"Calling you was Officer Leger's idea, Illéa. You've met him," said Maxon. "He'll explain."

"Alright," came the short reply, obviously wanting to get on with the proceedings.

The phone crackled for a second and Aspen took over the conversation.

"If you don't mind me asking, where are you currently?"

"Outside Angeles," August replied, not stopping before he got a chance to rib Maxon a bit. "Didn't your intelligence inform you that a camp of unidentified homeless vagrants has been in the northern part of the city five miles from the Palace for the last four weeks?"

Maxon gritted his teeth at the jab, obviously not in the mood to deal with August at that exact moment.

"No, we were unaware," he snapped, his temper flaring to life after being bottled behind his fear all day long.

August obviously recognized that he was in no mood for his games and his next words changed topic completely, evidently hoping that Maxon would perhaps _not_ reach through the phone to strangle him.

"I can be at the Palace in twenty minutes, Your Majesty."

"The guard will be expecting you," Aspen said with finality before tapping a button on the phone's screen to cut off the connection. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, we wait."

August, as it turned out, had been rather conservative in his estimate when he arrived forty-five minutes later with a guard escorting him. Carter Woodwork had managed to appear before August did, and they had all been sitting and waiting.

August looked ragged, moreso than he had just a few weeks ago when Maxon's parents were shot in the biggest rebel attack in the history of Illéa. The dark brown pants he wore were stained at the hems and knees and all the seams had threads sticking from them. His shirt fared no better for the most part, although it seemed cleaner. But despite his appearance, August seemed far more alive than any of the men in the room and he came in, bowing ever so slightly to Maxon and Maxon only.

"Afternoon," he said, his Northern accent coming through strongly. Even hundreds of years later, many people from farther north in the former Canadian provinces had hints of French in their speech and that was, in Maxon's estimate, where August had grown up.

"Illéa," Aspen acknowledged with a quick nod. "Sit." August freed one of the heavy leather chairs and sat, the well-cared-for chair barely making a sound.

"Have you heard anything of the Princess recently, Illéa?" Stavros asked, pen poised in hand.

August snorted and leaned forwards, his more serious mannerism becoming immediately apparent. "Stavros, that's rather a ridiculous question. I head a group of _former_ rebels, but that hardly means I'm not aware of what is happening in this country, perhaps more than you. I heard very early this morning that the Princess was missing from the Palace, courtesy of several maids I am- well, friends is not the right word. But I know them, and they know me, and no, they are not traitors to any of you. I daresay Miss Woodwork there is rather trusted, no?"

Maxon practically growled his next words. August's manner had grated on him the few times they had met, but he had hoped, in light of recent events, that the man would stop his endless hunt for superiority, although apparently not. "Marlee has already informed me of this relationship, Illéa, and you'd do better to not try to turn me against my staff." Carter leaned towards Marlee slightly, obviously protective, although well within the limits of propriety, not that Maxon blamed him. He would have done the same.

"Nothing of the sort. I am glad you seem to not despise the staff members quite as your father did, however." The offhand compliment made Maxon relax enough that Aspen trusted him to not leap across the table, and so he soldiered on.

"So you know as much as us, then?"

August shook his head. "No, but not much more. I know it's a Southern job, but that's obvious enough. I don't know where she is exactly, and the only transmission we've caught since three this morning was a burst of untraceable static."

"So we're back to square one," said Gavril.

"Yes."

Maxon turned his chair just enough so that he didn't quite have to look any of his advisors in the eye and see the pity that occasionally flitted across their faces. Even Aspen had done it once or twice, an aimless gaze that landed just above his eyes but made him feel like a small child again, a child all the adults in this exact room had felt sorry for but not one bothered to truly help. Or maybe they _didn't_ feel sorry, and they just wanted him to commit suicide or abdicate or something of the sort so they could take over his throne.

A pang of hot fury hit him like a tidal wave and he turned sharply towards them, examining each man in turn. What would they gain from it, if America died and then he did too? Plenty, he figured. His weary mind played with him, turning friendly faces into menacing glares that looked inherently untrustworthy. What if that was why this was taking so long? They'd found something, but they were stalling because they wanted him in the absolute depths of despair before forcing him to give up the life he had always known, and then they would kill America on live TV as some sort of spectacle-

Finally, though, his fit of paranoia disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Gavril's face lost the sly smirk his brain had created. Stavros looked less murderous, although it did seem to be a bit of a default setting. And Aspen- thank God for Aspen, and when had he _ever_ expected to say those words- leaned over and asked if he was alright.

He _had_ to trust them, Maxon realized. Every man in the room, even August, and the women, too; all they wanted was America back, safe and healthy, and perhaps for the King to not fall into a pit of depression on the eve of coronation, but that seemed more like a bonus at this point than anything.

* * *

Maxon had excused himself from the meeting by three o' clock, tired of the many hours of pointless talk that was taking him no closer to the solution. He had found himself wandering into the gardens, ignoring the fact that perhaps he ought to remain inside in the wake of the kidnapping of the second member of the royal family.

But he had ignored the guard when they asked him to return indoors, and now they stood discreetly within the hedges and rosebushes, just out of sight. For his part, Maxon had found the intricate bench of his first meeting with America.

Even though it was Angeles, the January air made the bench less than comfortable, and as he was only in his suit, the faintly chilled air made him wish to be back in his room with the covers pulled over his head like a small child and the door locked. He had only ever been granted the luxury to hide away like that on rare occasion. Even illness was not an excuse in his father's household. Waking up past five-thirty in the mornings with America tucked into his arms had been just as odd, not because of her presence, but because he had never really felt well-rested in the last six or seven years. Now after only one morning without that particular comfort, he was exhausted, utterly and completely. The pot and a half of vanilla roast coffee had barely helped, and now he was more weary than he had been.

Although America was at the forefront of his concerns, at the moment there were other things pressing on him. After his father's death, the weight of the country had not dropped solely onto his shoulders. America had taken her share for him, had helped him stay afloat. Now, though, it was a suffocating feeling, knowing that everything she had held less than a day ago was fully his responsibility. He had to run the country. He had to run the palace. He had to stop the rebels. He had to find her. Not even his entire advisory panel could take the weight, and Maxon thought- no, knew- that if he was to let them, he would topple too.

It was the only thing keeping him standing.

* * *

 _October 9, 2016_

 _More Maxon! (Next chapter, less Maxon)_

 _Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed. Leave a review or favorite, please, and feel free to ask questions._

 _-Dreams_


End file.
